


Mutt

by Severina



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Community: tvholics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-12
Updated: 2012-10-12
Packaged: 2017-11-16 04:07:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/535312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daryl always wanted a dog.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mutt

**Author's Note:**

> Written real quick for one of the challenges at LJ's tvholics community, because Norman Reedus keeps talking about how he wants Daryl to have a dog. I couldn't resist giving him one.
> 
> * * *

Daryl has already ranged further out than he should have; knows he’ll probably get back to camp and find Carol pacing at the edge of the field, frettin’. But when the pig escaped him not once but twice, he was determined to track the fucker down. ‘Sides, he’s got a real hankering for ham.

“And bacon,” he tells the downed pig. “Everybody loves bacon.”

He’s halfway through tying the dead animal’s hooves together when he hears the rustle in the underbrush. Swinging his crossbow forward is as instinctual as breathing, which he doesn’t do much of when the crunch of steps on the dead leaves intensifies. His finger brushes the trigger, his shoulders loose and relaxed, his gaze fixed on where the walker’s chest should be when it finally stumbles its way out of the trees. But when the shrubs in front of him part, he has to adjust his gaze downward… to the dirty, tangled mess of a dog that promptly sits on its haunches and cocks its head.

Daryl releases his grip on the trigger. He’s seen a lot of things since the dead decided to get up and walk, but a walker canine ain’t one of them. The dog follows the movement of his arms, ears flopping, before fixating on the dead pig.

“Don’t fuckin’ think so,” Daryl mutters. He keeps a wary eye on the dog, bending to finish tying the pigs legs, but the dog just sits there. Panting. And looking pitiful. 

It ain’t the kind of animal he’d expect to survive the apocalypse. Not a hunting dog that’d at least have a fighting chance. It’s just some long-haired mutt, probably the kind that let the family’s kids climb all over it, tugging at its ears; the kind that’d walk nicely on its lead and be all friendly with the other neighbourhood pups.

Must be resourceful, though, to have endured this long on its own. And it ain’t lunging for the meat, neither, despite the fact that it don’t look like it’s eaten in quite a while. Must be a female, he thinks, to be that patient. A quick check of the works tells him that he got that one right. 

Daryl always wanted a dog.

He shakes his head, rises easily to his feet. Ignores the way the damn mutt looks up at him through its ratted snarl of matted fur. What _he_ wants isn’t important; the only thing that matters is keeping his people – his family – safe. And a dog is just gonna get in the way. Soon enough they’re gonna have enough trouble keepin’ Lori’s baby quiet, never mind a damn dog. Runty little thing would probably bark her fool head off the minute she saw a walker, or run away with her tail between her legs whimpering, or—

The mutt lowers her ears and lets out of soft but dangerous growl seconds before Daryl hears the twig snap behind him. He dives to the side, feels the skittering fingernails of the walker graze his arm and comes up in a roll, his knife already unsheathed. The mutt has her hackles up, teeth bared in a vicious snarl, and when the walker swings unsteadily in her direction she doesn’t give an inch. Daryl has only to take a step forward to sink the knife home.

The walker has barely hit the grass before he’s wiping his knife clean on his pants and replacing it in its sheath. And the dog merely sits back down, head cocked and tongue lolling. And, Daryl thinks, looking quite pleased with herself. 

“All right,” he tells the mutt. “You made your point. You ain’t a liability.”

He bends to heft the pig behind his shoulders, settles his crossbow within easy grasp. He takes a few steps back toward camp before he stops, looks over his shoulder. 

“Well come on,” he calls out, “if you’re comin’.”

The dog bounds after him, tail wagging. He thinks he’ll let Carol name her.


End file.
